


a place of worship

by arsenicjay



Series: consigliere [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Complicated Relationships, Hints of Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou/Kuroo Tetsurou, Implied Bokuto Koutarou/Kuroo Tetsurou, Kidnapping, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:51:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7600609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsenicjay/pseuds/arsenicjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>News of Bokuto Koutarou’s disappearance spread like wildfire.</em>
</p><p>Or, in which one kidnapping solves another, too many secrets are kept and revealed, and a temple nearly comes to ruin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a place of worship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fyolette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyolette/gifts).



The gun was sleek, brushed barrel and smooth edges glinting under the distant neon glow of Kabukicho’s backstreets.

With measured effort, Akaashi drew himself up onto his knees. He swallowed down the slow tension already coiling low in his stomach. His hand twitched uselessly, for a blade too far out of reach after being kicked away in the earlier scuffle. _Stupid mistake_. It would cost him more than a few carefully chosen words to get out of this one, and he wasn’t sure reasoning was on the table anymore.

Cold metal pressed against his forehead in a morbid facsimile of a kiss, tilting his head back. He resisted for a few, stubborn seconds, then pulled his gaze up from the filthy alley floor.

“Bokuto,” Kuroo said, calmly. His gaze was neutral, his shoulders as relaxed and open as the last time Akaashi had spotted him--across the glittering Bell Grande foyer in lower Ginza, just as the elevator doors shut with a smooth snick. He had been smiling then, with a slight curve to his lips, at something beyond Akaashi’s line of sight.

The gun nudged at him again, and Kuroo continued, “Where is he?”

Akaashi resisted the urge to lick his lips; the gesture would be taken as nervousness, an uncertainty that he can't afford when Kuroo's gaze scratches over him, searching. “Wouldn't know,” he replied lightly, after a moment’s pause. But Kuroo's mere presence gave away too much, and he asked, “What interest is it to you?

Kuroo’s expression didn’t even flicker. “It’s really in your best interests not to lie to me right now,” he remarked, and if it weren’t for the gun cocked at Akaashi’s head, they may very well be exchanging simple pleasantries on the wrong side of town. "Fukurodani are floundering without their kumicho, aren't they? And here you are, on your knees, lost without Bokuto."

The words were searing, a hot rod that pressed into Akaashi's chest. He couldn't help the flare of anger, the way his eyes narrowed to bare slits. And he knew Kuroo was seeing straight through him--triumph flickered across his expression. Akaashi bit down on the inside of his cheek; it was difficult, trying to keep secrets out of Kuroo's reach.

There's a reason why the whispers trailing Kuroo hailed him as dangerous--the facade he wore was striking: here was a silent panther, masquerading as a common domesticated cat. His eyes glittered, sharp and focused. Two pinpricks, hidden in the dark and waiting to ambush.

Akaashi said nothing. He pressed his lips together, and kept his silence.

“Cold as ice, Akaashi-kun,” Kuroo said, his voice mild, when it became obvious that Akaashi was going to be stubborn. “I’d apologise, but I'm sure you understand." He paused to pull out a phone from the pocket of his suit jacket; the gun never wavered. "I need a pick up," he said. "East Shinjuku."

Akaashi felt the full weight of Kuroo's gaze come to rest on him.

“Yeah. Caught a snake in the grass."

 

 

\---

 

 

Where Akaashi Keiji came from was anybody’s guess, and a rumour that plagued the other Tokyo groups for months.

If asked, Konoha would scratch his head and say that it was probably _that one night in September, yeah_ , when Bokuto had stormed off into the rain after a meeting with the Shinsen group had gone disastrously wrong, only to be returned with a chastened expression by a blank-faced, soft-spoken man.

On the other hand, if one asked Washio, it was when someone knocked on the door of their Asakusa headquarters in late August. He had opened the door to a sombre individual, nose pink from the cold and dishevelled hair in clear contrast to the rest of his neatly pressed suit. _May I speak to someone important,_ the stranger had asked, bowing low.

Either way, it was neither a quite a _yes_ nor a _no_ , and Akaashi preferred it that way. His place was safely behind the scenes, out of sight--in the background where he was free to come and go, to be seen and then forgotten.

That, unfortunately, was not to Bokuto’s liking.

If one asked Komi, he would shrug and say, _it’s a mystery, but I’m sure Akaashi could tell you, have you asked him?_

So Bokuto did.

“Pardon?”

“I said--” Bokuto twisted his straw, until it was too creased to spring back into shape. His bottle of soft drink wobbled as the car turned at the lights. “--where’d you come from, exactly? I forgot.”

Beside him, Akaashi blinked. “Tachikawa.”

“What?” Bokuto shook his head. “Not where you were _born_ , how you got here! With us! Our group.”

“I shared sake with the kumicho.”

From the driver’s seat, Konoha laughed. “Good luck, Bokuto.”

“Why are you so evasive?” Bokuto complained. He sunk into his seat, the leather interior squeaking as his weight shifted. His fingers were tapping an impatient rhythm out onto the armrest. “Or did you forget too?”

“It was a long time ago,” Akaashi agreed.

Clearly displeased, Bokuto turned away with a huff and glared out the window.

 

 

 

It was a delicate time for the Fukurodani group, given that they were on the cusp of changing leadership. For all intents and purposes, they were were a group too small to render more than a marginal blip on the radar but as Sarukui had warned him, in that gentle reasonable voice of his--the Tokyo groups here knew that even the smallest blips could be icebergs under the surface. And so did the police; Fukurodani was cautious of the Special Unit wherever they conducted their affairs. A political interruption now could spell disastrous for the group.

Avoiding one might prove difficult though.

Bokuto-san, Akaashi thought privately, was much less of an iceberg and more of an enormous glacial break off, sending ripples and a resounding _crack_ through the prior silence.

Weeks of filing in and out of hotels, dressed in dark suits and holding stiff expressions through hour-long meetings; it was obvious that Bokuto was unhappy. Navigating his way through negotiations wasn’t precisely Bokuto’s prerogative, and their success could be debated. That wasn’t to say that the outcomes of the negotiations were necessarily _bad_ , but he supposed that was a matter of perspective. Whether it be a stony-faced arms dealer, or the _kumicho_ of Itachiyama--Bokuto’s tested and tried methods of conversation usually erupt.

Either into violence or chaos, and at times, it was difficult to disentangle the two.

 

 

 

Akaashi kept to the back when they arrived. The Fukurodani entourage greeted the Shanghai representatives, perhaps a little louder than most groups would, courtesy of Bokuto’s energy, but they lapsed into a formal exchange rapidly.

Nobody spared a second glance at him when the first would place his presence as little more than a warning, sharp and dressed up in an elegant three-piece. To them, he was an unknown newcomer who had insinuated himself into Fukurodani’s ranks not long ago. If that’s what they assumed his purpose was here, then so be it.

He kept his eyes trained ahead, and his expression carefully blank.

But it was not until they were settling into the meeting room--thick red carpet and wood-panelled walls encased behind a fragile glass window, that drew Akaashi’s eye--that he placed a light hand over Bokuto’s shoulder. He dipped his head down to murmur close to Bokuto’s ear, keeping his face turned from view.

Bokuto nodded, and Akaashi straightened.

Outside the window, fog still sat heavy over Ginza’s early morning rush. An uneasy feeling crawled over him--whether disquiet from the sheer placement of the window, or intuition tapped at his thoughts, he wasn’t sure.

Akaashi stared out through the glass for a moment, searching. Then turned, to stand behind Bokuto.

 

 

 

It didn’t take long for Akaashi to decide that the Shanghai representative was an amateur at best, mouth shaping awkwardly around the Japanese pronunciation as he outlined their terms.

From the corner of his eye, Akaashi could see the way the representative was wringing his hands in his lap, half hidden beneath the lacquered table. He observed the sweat, building up on the back of the representative’s neck--every little pause and stutter, words faltering--and he wrote the entire meeting off as another abject failure. If this was the best that the Shanghai group could send them, then this meeting hadn’t even been worth the drive to the hotel.

Bokuto wouldn’t be making a deal with the Shanghai group today, not unless he wanted to drive business into the ground.

Not that Akaashi’s opinion would matter here, really. As a relatively new  _kobun_ , he doesn’t imagine his words have much sway. Either way, his purpose here was not as an advisor, but rather--

The hardwood doors to the conference room opened with a barely audible creak, and Konoha poked his head in.

“We need you outside for a moment, Akaashi,” he muttered, head turned and voice too low for the representative to hear. There was no urgency in his voice, which was enough to ease Akaashi’s instinctive guard. He nodded, and strode out of the room with only a lingering glance to Bokuto.

When Konoha closed the door behind him, there was a deep scowl was etched on his face.

“Just heard from Sarukui,” he said, gesturing for Akaashi to come away from the room, further into the corridor. “We’ve got someone watching.”

From the moment they had entered the conference room, Akaashi hadn’t liked it. The window was too large for any modicum of security, too visible from the multitude of skyscrapers dotted around Ginza. He’d examined the glass under the pretense of idle curiosity: tempered glass wouldn’t be enough to stop a bullet--no self-respecting professional would agree to a meeting in that room. “Who is it?” he asked, wariness rising up inside him. “Do we know their vantage point?”

“What?” Konoha shook his head. “No it’s not like that. It’s--I don’t think you know him.”

Akaashi stared, electing to stay quiet in his confusion.

“It’s--” Konoha ran a hand through his hair, scowl smoothing out. “Complicated. Sort of. Nekoma is just nosy, and Kuroo is--”

_Thud._

The noise interrupted Konoha, mid-sentence, and they both turned to the room. There were no voices, only a loud beat of silence. Then another thud sounded, reverberating into the corridor this time, and a muffled yell that was cut off, barely a second after it started.

Akaashi was striding through the doors before Konoha had even moved, worry clawing at his feet--

The scent of iron rushed forward, almost smothering in its intensity. Bright red was splattered across the conference table, soaking into the carpet and leaving darkened patches. On the far side, lay a limp body.

To the other side of the room, Bokuto was pressed against the wall, while his chest heaved with enormous gulping breaths. His lips were still pulled back into a snarl, eyes glazed over with the telltale haze of fading aggression. A knife lay on the carpet, almost innocuous if it weren’t for the vivid gleam of blood along its edge.

Behind him, Konoha swore. “Are you fucking _serious?_ Again?”

Surprise evaporated from Akaashi as swiftly as it had come upon him. He stepped forward, reaching without touching. “Bokuto-san? You need to go.”

“Oh.” Bokuto blinked slowly, and Akaashi watched as the haze lifted from his eyes. “Ah. I did it again.”

“Yeah, you _did_ ,” Konoha said. “Again.”

“He had a knife,” Bokuto objected, frowning. His hands were wet, and he wiped them on his trousers before Akaashi could stop him. “It wasn’t my fault, he attacked me first--something about the shipments from Hong Kong disappearing, and the deal with Nohebi falling through--”

Akaashi was already stripping off his jacket--regardless of who’s fault it was, the facts didn’t change. He had one body to get rid of and a conference room to clean, and one budding kumicho with the front of his suit soaked in blood. “Can’t be helped now,” he said, handing his jacket to Bokuto. “You’ve got blood all over your dress shirt.”

“You alright with the mess?” Konoha asked, as he pushed a protesting Bokuto out of the door. “I can send Komi to give you a hand--”

“I’ll need a trolley,” Akaashi agrees. “But that should be all. Please get Bokuto-san cleaned up.”

As Akaashi surveyed the mess that Bokuto had rendered--the mess of the representative that was left--he grimly reminded himself, _this_ was an excellent reminder of what his purpose was.

 

 

\---

 

 

Akaashi woke to an empty room, with old paint peeling off the walls and a faded brown stain in the corner. There was one door, a veritable block of steel embedded in the wall, and he didn't need to shake the handle to know it was locked shut.

He ran through his options rapidly, ignoring the throbbing behind his eyes. Holster gone. Spare magazine also gone from his inner pocket. The sheath for his blade still empty. The folded karambit, usually tucked into his right shoe, also missing.

“Thorough,” Akaashi murmured under his breath.

Kuroo must have slipped him something, though exactly when, Akaashi couldn't remember. A car had pulled up to the side alley only minutes after Kuroo slipped his phone away. Though loathed to stay on his knees, Akaashi hadn't moved, and Kuroo eventually lowered the gun. He had seemed curious, bemused perhaps, about Akaashi's silent acceptance of the situation--but not enough to question him.

All things considered, Kuroo had probably guessed that Akaashi was there because he _wanted_ to be, rather than from any fear of retribution. He was too cunning not to realise. And yet, Kuroo still brought him in--beckoned for him to get off the dirty concrete, and applied firm pressure when ducking Akaashi’s head down into the waiting car.

Somewhere between that point and now, the city lights had slid away from behind the tinted windows, and Akaashi’s eyes followed suit.

Now, he ran his tongue over his teeth, around the corners of his mouth, searching for any lingering tastes. Concentrated to check the softer points of his body; his wrists, his neck and thighs. Checked his chest.

No punctures. No tenderness, other than the bruise on his cheek from their earlier struggle. Some sort of gas, perhaps.

His thoughts were interrupted by a noise at the door--a bolt catching, the click of a key turning. The handle pulled down, and the door swung open.

“Ah good,” Kuroo said. “You’re awake.”

Akaashi stayed silent. He was more uncertain of Kuroo’s motives than he liked, and it would suit him well to bid his time. Kuroo, he knew from experience, readily offered information if one waited long enough. He liked to talk, strike up a conversation and kindle it with little tidbits of knowledge when he felt it was dying low--a dangerous habit when working with the underground.

“Not feeling chatty?” Kuroo leaned against the steel door, now closed behind him. He crossed his arms. “Nothing you want to admit to?”

“Nothing you don’t already know,” Akaashi replied.

Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I know much at all?”

His first encounter with Kuroo-san had been interesting, if such an encounter could be described in terms so neutral. Pressed against the wallpaper of a hotel corridor, with a scrutinising gaze that felt like it was prying layers away from his skin. Even now, he feels that phantom touch brush his lips, a memory that traces the seam of his mouth and echoes, _Bokuto’s found himself quite a prize, hasn’t he?_

It’s not an experience he would care to relive.

“You’ve known Bokuto far longer than I have,” Akaashi responded. “Of all people, I should be wary of you, considering aren’t part of the Fukurodani group.”

Kuroo laughed. "Yes, but you,” he said, leaning forward. “Are a traitor.”

 

 

\---

 

 

When the title of _kumicho_ finally passed onto Bokuto, a thin air of disbelief hung in the atmosphere for weeks. Or perhaps it wasn’t so much disbelief as it was suspense, held on bated breath. The other Tokyo group were quiet, beyond the few friendly families offering their respects, and Fukurodani could feel the keen gaze of the underground fixed on them.

But old habits don’t change, even for someone as fickle as Bokuto.

His reputation, Akaashi soon learned, was one that was well earned. Bokuto was vibrant, a glowing tower of energy that pulled Fukurodani into the centre limelight with almost effortless contagiousness. The kind of person that one would catch sight of on the street, and glanced back twice to wonder how so _much_ could be crammed into the body of one person. Bokuto himself announced, on the day of the ceremony after all the solemnities and practiced silences, _I’m going to take us to the top of Tokyo!_

There was a reason that Akaashi had joined the Fukurodani group, and that reason was called _Bokuto Koutarou_.

The outbursts, unfortunately, came part and parcel. _Unpredictable,_ Komi had whispered to him, as they hurried to mop up the blood-splattered tiles. _Annoying_ , Konoha had groaned, as he tried to bring Bokuto out of one of his notorious, unhappy moods.

But on the streets, amongst the rumours, Akaashi heard _god-touched_.

Perhaps, he thought, as he closed another ruined room, there really was too much of Bokuto to be contained in one person.

Another meeting that had turned belly up, within half an hour of negotiations. This time it had been with the _kumicho_ of the Itachiyama group, requesting in an old favour. Only the favour wasn’t asked on a clean slate--moving into Nohebi’s territory was too risky, too dangerous for a group with limited territory of their own. Fukurodani was on good terms with neither of the two, and choosing a side was not a decision Akaashi would’ve liked to have made that day.

They didn’t, even if it cost them a minor struggle. Suffice to say that the bloodstain on Bokuto’s shirt was too noticeable to exit the hotel in, and the tattoos etched across his back too expensive to simply remove the outer layers of his clothing. So now, they found themselves striding through the empty hallways of their hotel, on the eighteenth floor, shielding a grumbling Bokuto from view.

Akaashi supposed that this too, was part of clean-up.

“Call Komi,” he told Konoha. “We’ll need to leave through underground parking of the hotel--our next appointment is in Asakusa again, and Bokuto-san needs to be clean before then.”

He paused then, distracted by the prickling at the back of his neck. It was a feeling that he had gotten used to, a warning that he’d learned to heed.

“Konoha, you take Bokuto-san,” he said, as he slowed in his footsteps.

 

 

 

“Kuroo-san,” Akaashi said, when he felt that shadow looming a little too close. “Why, are you following us?”

A split second was not enough time for Kuroo to react to the words, but that was the only pause Akaashi gave before whirling around and shouldered him back. Kuroo hit the wall with a thud, enough to knock the breath out of him, but his eyes widened when the wall abruptly gave way--it was a door to the bathroom, as ornate and plush as the rest of the hotel.

Almost immediately, Akaashi had an arm shoved up against Kuroo’s throat: hard enough to warn, to make breathing a conscious decision.

“Hello, Akaashi-kun,” Kuroo said, swallowing down his breathlessness. The address grated on him. Even now, there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. It looked sheepish, at least, this time. “Didn’t expect to see you--”

“Don’t play games with me,” Akaashi snapped. He had one fist curled in Kuroo’s shirt, and he twisted his grip to emphasize his words. “Why are you here? What are you doing?”

Akaashi saw the flicker on Kuroo’s face, as if he were warring with himself whether on what to divulge. He pressed his arm harder into Kuroo’s neck, as a warning; he wasn’t in the mood to play games, and Kuroo was a notorious trickster. Perhaps Bokuto enjoyed it--he certainly perked up when Kuroo paid visit to their headquarters--and welcomed the frivolity of argument for the sake of argument, but Akaashi wasn’t fond of those who played devil’s advocate so willingly.

They had a tenuous understanding; but if pressed, Akaashi would admit to being more wary than understanding.

“Your talks with Itachiyama,” Kuroo said, wheezing slightly. “Regarding Nohebi. You think Nekoma has no interest in that?”

“Nekoma seems to have a remarkable interest in Fukurodani’s affairs,” Akaashi replied. _Nosy_ , was how Konoha first described the Nekoma group to him. _Sly_ and _cunning_ came soon after, learned through direct experience. “It’s not polite to pry, Kuroo-san.”

“Well,” Kuroo said. He blew out a gentle puff of air, that ruffled Akaashi’s hair. “I’m sure you know all about that.”

Akaashi narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like the insinuation there, nor did he like the knowing light in Kuroo’s eyes, that he had managed to touch on a sore spot. It was dangerous, talking to Kuroo; as much as Kuroo gave away information, so did he glean it from Akaashi with startling acuity--

 

 

 

“--kashi! Akaashi!”

Akaashi stiffened, then shoved Kuroo to the side, all but throwing him head-first into the nearest cubicle. A loud, “Where did you _go?_ ” bursts into full volume.

He had managed to close the cubicle door in time, it seemed. Bokuto showed no surprise on his face beyond a frown of annoyance, presumably at Akaashi’s sudden disappearance. It seemed like a rash decision in hindsight, when he could’ve cut his losses and asked Konoha to deal with Kuroo instead. They might already be on their way to Asakusa, rather than being caught in a hotel bathroom and at risk of having to explain Kuroo’s presence.

“You didn’t get cleaned up,” Akaashi observed, “Didn’t you go straight to the suite? We can buy the cleaning staff out but the halls will only be clear for--never mind, come here first.”

He turned the tap on with a squeak, and pulled Bokuto’s hands under the flow of water. Blood chipped off his nails like tiny flakes of paint or rust, swirling down the drain as Akaashi scrubbed at the skin. Bokuto’s hands were warm, the meat of his palms marred with callouses, but he kept his hand open and relaxed as Akaashi worked. Trusting.

“I can do that myself,” Bokuto said, although he made no effort to remove himself from Akaashi’s grip.

“It’s faster this way,” Akaashi replied, absently. The sooner they could leave the better; he wasn’t sure how long Kuroo would be willing to behave and keep himself out of sight. “You’ll need my jacket too. Did you come alone here?”

“Your jacket is too small!”

“You’ll have to put up with it, I’m afraid,” Akaashi’s response was mild. “At least until we reach the hotel room.”

There was a groan as the bathroom door swung open again. “Bokuto!” a loud voice said. Konoha’s face peered around the tiled wall, looking somewhat frazzled at the edges. “Where did you run off to--ah, Akaashi, what are you doing?”

“Making Bokuto-san presentable enough to get to the hotel room. Is Komi finished?”

“Waiting for the car.”

Akaashi switched off the taps. “That’s fine. Bokuto-san, please go back to the suite and clean up properly.”

 

 

 

“I watched, you know,” Kuroo said, when Bokuto and Konoha had left. The cubicle door had unlocked with an audible click, and Akaashi watched in the mirror’s reflection as Kuroo cast a knowing eye over the wet sink, the water still clinging to Akaashi’s hands, his missing jacket. If Akaashi let himself, he imagined that Kuroo’s voice sounded kind. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Akaashi-kun?”

“What business is it to you?” Akaashi asked, after pause.

He knew, before the sympathetic smile started growing on Kuroo’s face, that even that was saying too much.

 

 

\---

 

 

The news of Bokuto Koutarou’s disappearance spread like wildfire through select circles.

It’s no surprise that Nekoma had been one of the first groups to hear about it, considering how close Kuroo and Bokuto seemed to be. Their relationship was one that Akaashi found difficult to understand--not for the similarity they shared, which was clear if anyone spent several minutes simply observing--but for the circumstances under which they happened.

Fukurodani was friendly with Nekoma, yes, but the camaraderie between Bokuto and Kuroo seemed to extend beyond that of an alliance--and as far as Akaashi knew, they had no such agreement. Yet.

“It’s a long story,” Konoha had said once, waving his hand when Akaashi asked. That day, Kuroo had appeared at the back of their complex, wandered through the main building of the corridors until Bokuto found him. That moment had been marked with the loudest shout that Akaashi had ever heard voiced in the complex.

Now, Akaashi sat, hands tied behind his back, while Kuroo stared at him with unblinking eyes. He had stared back, until his eyes started watering, then glanced away rather than give Kuroo the advantage of seeing his exhaustion. It had been thirty four long hours, since Bokuto went missing. Beside him, Kenma had a laptop open, fingers flickering over the keyboard in sharp, sporadic bursts.

“What do you think, Kenma?” Kuroo asked, eventually. “Guilty?” he tilted his head one way, gaze never leaving Akaashi. “Or not?”

Kuroo had apparently decided that casting singular judgement on Akaashi was inadequate. He’d pulled Kenma into the room--marking the second time, that Akaashi had seen Nekoma’s reluctant head--and lapsed into silence until now.

Kenma barely glanced up. “In many respects, his case is probably similar to yours,” he replied. His voice was almost too quiet for Akaashi to hear, and too flat for him to discern any meaning from it. “Kuro.”

A plume of smoke rises in the dim room as Kuroo stubs out his cigarette; flakes of ash crumble in the glass tray, embers fading into grey.

It’s the first sign of frustration that Akaashi has seen from Kuroo, and he’s marginally surprised that it showed. When Akaashi looked up, Kuroo’s expression was grim. But he must be frustrated--Nekoma and Fukurodani have had weeks of discussion in the last month. Carefully constructed missives, now washed away and rendered useless. Sowing the first seeds of an alliance was difficult from the onset, and became downright impossible when the head of the group was inexplicably absent.

Or perhaps, Kuroo was simply missing someone dear.

 

 

\---

 

 

The ship rocked gently, as Bokuto perched his arms over the sturdy railing. Across the dark sea of Tokyo Bay, a horizon of light glittered--the shore was lit with pinpoints, coalescing into one hazy glow. A bright celebration of civilisation and feats of man, haunted by the backdrop of tall, distant shapes, scraping into the night sky.

Akaashi knew what Bokuto was thinking. He wanted it to be _his._

A blazing city on fire.

Or, as the rest of the world liked to call it, New Years Eve.

“It's cold outside, Bokuto-san,” he said instead, approaching him from behind. It was cold outside, and he wrapped his arms around himself. “Come back into the cabin.”

“But I’m fine. Don't you know I'm always warm?”

Akaashi made a noise that sounded somewhere between a snort and vague agreement. As if he hasn't complained himself, just yesterday, that the way Bokuto insisted on draping over his shoulders while he was filing through invoices was stifling and too distracting. Bokuto had replied, with faint smugness, that if Akaashi wouldn't make space for him, he'd have to take it.

Akaashi simply handed him a pen.

“D’you see that?” Bokuto asked, unperturbed, as he threw his hand out over the water. The railing creaked with the shift in weight. “That's gonna be mine."

"The bay?"

"All of Tokyo!"

Warmth soaked into Akaashi’s side as he came closer. He didn't lean on the railing the way Bokuto did, but rested one hand on the metal bar instead, considering. "You can't possibly control all of Tokyo, Bokuto-san."

"Huh? You should believe in me!" Bokuto said. "I'm Fukurodani's kumicho, of course I can. Watch me."

"There are too many clans," Akaashi replied. This was a familiar argument between them now, if it could be called that. Easy banter, he supposed, that he never expected to have with the kumicho of Fukurodani. "Even an emperor couldn't control all of Tokyo."

Bokuto puffed up. "I'm more powerful than an emperor!"

The sea breeze coasting over the water’s surface picked up, flinging a fine mist of sea spray over them. Akaashi retracted his hand from the bar, and turned. There were tiny little spots in Bokuto’s hair, catching the light from the ship. "Let's go inside," he said, moving away.

"I don't want to," Bokuto argued, but he twisted away from the railing to watch after him. "Hey. Are you going to sleep?"

"Soon. Come inside and keep me company?"

Akaashi's face was turned away, and he kept all hints of innuendo out of the tone of his voice. Behind him, he could imagine Bokuto’s expression--slack-jawed while the words slowly ticking over. But when he glanced back, out of the corner of his eye, Bokuto looked more thoughtful than surprised.

Perhaps he should’ve expected it, saying such things. For Akaashi, at least; he was honest in many regards, but being forthcoming, teasing, seemed like a quality better used to describe someone--

Someone else.

"I'll come," Bokuto decided. He spoke quickly, spinning on his heel as he grinned the grin that Akaashi had been hoping to see. His barely worn shoes clattered on the timber deck of the ship, as he hurried forward. “Aren’t you coming?”

Akaashi bowed his head, respectful, and followed Bokuto into the inviting warmth of the cabin.

 

 

 

At some point, between his second and third year with the Fukurodani group, it seemed that Akaashi had developed a mild reputation. The names that follow him range from kind, to cruel, and their accuracy varied even more--clean-up, he’d been called, a mortal maid, a caretaker. He tried to keep his distance at one point, disentangle himself from the association, but Bokuto was difficult to refuse.

These days, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

When Bokuto promoted him to _saiko komon_ , the rumours began to fade into the background. But they never quite left. In some respects, Akaashi didn’t mind. There was some element of truth to most of them, at least.

It wasn’t hard to find Bokuto, when one was looking. Even when his voice faded to sullen silence, and sulking. Then it became a matter of following the trail of clothes, old socks and worried whispers from Konoha and Komi as they led Akaashi through the main Fukurodani complex in Asakusa. He arrived at the lair of the beast, hailed by two firmly closed shoji doors; a nest lined with an almost palpable misery, and the resting place of a particularly unhappy creature, still licking his wounds.

Akaashi rapped his knuckles on the door, and the rice paper shuddered under the force. "Bokuto-san, may I come in?" he asked. He stepped in without waiting for an answer.

Bokuto’s tastes were often whimsical, bordering on capricious--he changed with the seasons, and flew from one attraction to the next, with only a hungering sort of fascination to guide him. His room, this time, seemed to take on certain Western influences--a large bed stood in the centre of the room, crowned with a hardwood headboard and resident to a stirring lump, swathed in more blankets and pillows than Akaashi could count.

“Go away,” the lump said. Even muffled through the fabric, the voice sounded thick.

"Not yet.”

Akaashi picked his way around the room, avoiding the clothes and trinkets thrown haphazard on the floor, and sat on the bed. He reached for the first pillow, intent on yanking it away, and he startled when a hard shot out to grab it in a tight fist.

"Leave me alone and go away," came the insistent voice. The pillow was tugged back into place, and Akaashi let it go.

"Bokuto-san," Akaashi said. "Nobody has heard from Fukurodani’s kumicho for weeks. The groups are getting restless--Itachiyama is still trespassing on Nohebi’s territory. They’re keeping an eye on this place. Kuroo-san had to sneak in the night before, to avoid being spotted.”

“Don’t care.”

“What happened to becoming the emperor of Tokyo?”

“I said I don’t _care_.”

Akaashi exhaled. “If you come out, I will grant you a favour.”

Silence.

“A favour!” Bokuto threw off his sheets like a veritable explosion. His hair was wild and unkempt, his eyes wide with indignation. “I’m the kumicho! You should be doing me favours all the time.”

“If you don’t want a favour, then I will not give you one,” Akaashi replied, which saw Bokuto erupt into a series of protests.

“I want a favour,” he demanded. “I have one!”

“Yes?”

Bokuto grabbed Akaashi by the shoulders, and held him still. Akaashi couldn’t help it; he darted a glance down to Bokuto’s lips, the way they moved when he said, “Call me _aniki_.”

Akaashi started. “Aniki?” he asked, momentarily confused. The significance doesn’t strike him for another half second. “Why would--ah.”

Expectation was stark on Bokuto’s face, his hands still gripping Akasshi’s shoulders as if he might be able to pull the word out of him if Akaashi refused. But Bokuto had the pull of a flaring star too near for anyone to escape its orbit--a gravitational pull that drew people towards him, like moths to an open flame. A temptation, he thought. A test.

But Akaashi didn’t offer what he wasn’t willing to give, and so he rolled the word on his tongue, marked the taste of it, like smoked honey and bitter berries, and noted the confession for what it was.

“Aniki,” he tried, and Bokuto’s grin spread like a fire across his face.

 

 

\---

 

 

Kenma frowned. His open laptop cast a pale blue glow onto his face. “If we’ve reached a decision on Akaashi,” he said. “Then Shinsen has been gaining territory in Ikebukuro. Nohebi has gone to ground, they've quieted, and Itachiyama has been making contacts with a number of Taiwanese groups. It’s unlikely that the West Tokyo groups will have touched Bokuto.”

“Back to ground zero,” Kuroo echoed. He rose from his seat. “Well. I suppose now that you’re here, you can help us look for Bokuto.”

Akaashi stared, momentarily too blindsided to argue. “Why should I help you?” he asked, when he regained his voice. “You kidnapped me, thinking I was involved in Bokuto’s disappearance. You called me a traitor.”

“It’s not a lie, though, is it?” Kuroo replied. He gestured for Akaashi to turn around, and after second of scrutiny, Akaashi gave in, because as much as the words stung, they were true. He turned his back, ignoring the insistent prickling at the back of his neck. Part of him still didn’t trust Kuroo, and he thought his instincts had very good reason to. “Besides, it takes one to know one, ecetera, ecetera, I suppose.”

The rope binding his wrists slackened, and Akaashi brought his arms forward. His wrists were red, slightly rope-burned from the chafing when he had tested the strength of his bonds, but Kuroo hadn’t tied them cruelly. It was puzzling.

"Why,” Akaashi asked, keeping his words slow. “Does someone so devious stay hidden in the background?”

Kuroo huffed his amusement. "I could ask you the same question, Akaashi-kun.”

 

 

\---

 

 

In all the lore and myths that Akaashi knew, there were rules even to the unexplainable if one looked looked hard enough. Although, the rules sometimes appeared more like crooked lines drawn through the dirt rather than any straight, well-lit path. Principles that could be bent, if one knew the right offerings to make. Tenuous favours that could be granted, if one knew the correct god to entreat.

But at the crux of all these rules was an exchange. A fair trade, though, Akaashi supposed, the definition of _fair_ could also be argued.

“ _Higanbana_ , for example,” he said. “Would not be used in a charm for happiness.”

Bokuto glanced up. His hands were cupped around curling red petals, attached to a thin, delicate stem. “What? Why not?”

Akaashi shrugged. “Its currency is grief,” he replied. “What use is it when someone is asking for happiness?”

They were into the second day of the Sanja matsuri; the one day that the people of their particular circles were free to roam, without worry. Even the police and the Special Units turned a blind eye on the three days of the Sanja matsuri. Komi and Washio were at the temple, offering their prayers for the new year; Konoha had disappeared into the street markets earlier that evening. That left Akaashi with Bokuto, wandering the crowds that had filled the streets of Asakusa to bursting. Stalls on either side displayed an array goods: trays of steamed buns and oden covered with woven bamboo covers, jewellery glinting on silky fabrics, and racks of silken garments from Kyoto.

One more face in the multitude of the evening festival, Akaashi had assumed, would surely go unnoticed.

 

 

 

"But it's pretty!” Bokuto protested, frowning. “And I see it all the time, so people obviously like it too.”

“It has its uses,” Akaashi allowed. The blooms were stark against Bokuto’s palm, vivid and bright, like tiny petals of blood. The sight was almost familiar enough to make Akaashi feel fond. “At the very least, it makes for pretty decorations in the summertime. Like now.”

He remembered the blooms that decorated the old building that he had stayed at, when he first joined the Fukurodani group. Pale yellow blossoms, that grew outside along the pathway. He picked them sometimes, and left them on the altar he kept in his room. Kept a few of them in the box tucked away in the wardrobe, hidden from other eyes, out of sight, out of mind.

“--as pretty, though,” Bokuto was saying.

“What?” Akaashi turned back to Bokuto.

“By themselves, they’re not as pretty,” Bokuto repeated. He reached up then, a motion that had Akaashi shying away on instinct--if one day, he wasn’t set on guard when another person reached for his head, he would surely be a different person--and pulled a few petals from Akaashi’s hair. His pupils were blown wide, irises a thin, golden ring. It was a familiar sight, and it seemed strange to see them when Bokuto wasn’t breathing hard, trembling from adrenaline. “They look nice in your hair.”

It was the mood of the festival, perhaps, or the dim light of the lanterns swinging at the corner of each stall.

But Akaashi’s heart jumped, a stutter that forced his hand to clench into a fist, in fear that some part of him might fly out, suddenly let loose into the night sky.

 

 

 

He thought to himself: he should’ve seen this coming. Seen the trajectory for what it was, where it was leading--the haloed night, the warmth of the summer heat and the thrill of having Bokuto so close, his presence so vivid.

Perhaps he didn’t want to.

Bokuto’s hands clutched tight in Akaashi’s shirt, pulling at the glass buttons until they strained at their seams. The strength of his grip was likely unconscious, but Akaashi felt his hunger like a palpable force, thick enough to choke the room. He let his head tip back over the couch, exhaling loudly when Bokuto’s lips pressed against the soft underside of his chin. Hungry, open mouthed kisses trailed down the length of his neck, and he stifled an instinctive shudder.

That affection swayed him, urged him to bow his head and yield, and it was difficult, so difficult, not to let himself luxuriate in the warmth.

He could feel his resistance slowly chipping away, brushed aside like grains of sand with every puff of Bokuto’s warm breath. “Wait,” he said. His voice sounded faint, almost as shaky as he felt. He thought about purpose, about _reasoning_ and forced his voice calmer. “Bokuto-san, wait. We sh--”

Bokuto shifted back, a heavy weight over Akaashi’s thighs. From this angle, Akaashi could see the way his chest heaved, rapidly expanding and contracting with every shallow breath. His eyes were fixed on Akaashi, almost gleaming in the lowlight of the room. Feathers trailed over the curve of his shoulder, a bare hint of the enormous tattoo draped over the entirety of his back.

Under the dim light, the dark ink seemed to ripple on his skin.

Only hours ago did he bare it. He and the rest of Fukurodani, the spread of dark wings, talons, and cruel, hooked beaks on proud display. A mark of their brotherhood, their family--a mark that Akaashi was yet to wear. His skin was unmarked, clean, until Bokuto lay his lips upon it.

It’s harder to remember why he cared, when Bokuto was so warm in his lap and looked wild, unmoored--like he wanted to _devour_ Akaashi, swallow him whole and leave nothing of him left.

Akaashi dug his fingers into Bokuto’s thighs. Reasoning flew out of his head, scattered into the dark recesses of the night. Out of sight, out of mind.

How weak was he, that all of his will and determination came crashing down in a reckless moment of indulgence.

 

 

 

Sometimes, Akaashi thought to himself, Bokuto would be a legend one day. A myth, a figure so inexplicable that he would drift into the realm of disbelief and reverement. An anomaly that stretched the bounds of reality.

 

 

 

What a reckless heart he had grown.

 

 

\---

 

 

Kuroo, Akaashi found, did not merely relegate himself to the background, but was remarkably adept at doing so. For one, he was not the _kumicho_ of Nekoma and when Akaashi asked--

“Kuroo knows too many secrets,” Kenma replied, in a flat voice. His legs were drawn up onto the chair, elbows resting on the tabletop as he typed. Hacking took less concentrated effort and more tedium, it appeared. “It wouldn’t be ideal to have someone like him at the forefront. He gives too much away, even if he sees a lot in return.”

The last fragment was spoken with irritation, and Akaashi could only begin to imagine what it would be like to have someone like Kuroo leading Fukurodani. Though comparatively, he thought, it must be nice having a kumicho that didn’t have a reputation for violent outbursts. Still, if Kuroo was supposed to be an open book, then he by far was the most difficult book that Akaashi had ever tried to read.

“For example,” Kenma said, eyes never lifting away from the screen. “He gave away how much he cares about Bokuto. I don’t know what he was thinking, when he kidnapped you. He probably wasn’t.”

“Drastic measures, given that he’s usually quite careful,” Akaashi remarked. He rubbed his wrists again, even though the soreness was long gone. Kuroo had left the room, disappeared to make a few contacts, but he still lowered his voice. “He changed his mind quickly, about my status as a traitor.”

Kenma glanced up. “I told you,” he said, voice still flat. “He has secrets, and he sees too much.”

 

 

\---

 

 

The complex was old and rickety; built in the nineteenth century, it was constructed in something of a traditional style. The steep sloping roof hinged itself upon sturdy wooden walls, and upon arriving, they were met with a latticed door, thin strips of wood running across rough rice paper. It had taken several good, jarring tugs to slide the door open, and it groaned its protest.

“I haven’t been here for many years,” Akaashi said, as he flicked on the lights. “I stayed in these rooms for a few months, after the kumicho accepted me.”

True to the exterior, the main building housed several rooms, each splitting off from the narrow corridor. The tatami mats beneath their feet were worn and dirty, and the fibres felt smooth against Akaashi’s bare feet as they ventured inside. Cleaning out the building would take a concentrated effort; it would be weeks before it was habitable again.

It wasn’t so much that the complex was abandoned, but rather neglected. Stale air greeted them as they explored the complex, opening doors to musty old rooms and examining the strange contents of each. One room was host to a solitary altar, with half burnt incense still standing in its cup, while another room near the far end of the corridor held tiny glass jars of herbs--yellowed, dry lotus seeds, and thin shrivelled roots that Akaashi didn’t recognise.

He picked up a glass jar and peered into it. “Sarukui-san used to be very protective about these,” he murmured, as he held the jar against the light.

“I’m going to look in the next room!” Bokuto announced, as he ambled out of the doors.

Akaashi’s memories of this place were faded, dream-like in their intensity. He remembered the six tatami mats laid out on the floor of his room--similar to Sarukui’s, albeit half a mat larger--and a shallow alcove, for an altar or lamp of his choosing. Simple means, but Akaashi didn’t ask for much, not in this life or his previous ones. If the house had truly been as neglected as it seemed, then his old futons should still be in the next room, neatly folded and tucked into the wardrobe.

He heard the telltale rattle of a door opening from the next room; if Bokuto wanted to keep the futons, they would need to be aired out for several days--

Akaashi froze. He heard a distant crash, felt something light hitting his bare feet.

Bokuto’s voice was loud. “Akaashi! Come out here, I found something--”

He blinked and suddenly he was looking at Bokuto, crouched on the floor with a familiar box in his hands. It looked old, forgotten, and secretive, even to him--it was coated in some sort of reisin, rendered impervious to the damp. A thin line ran around the outer edge of the box, and Bokuto dug his fingers along where the gap was widest, testing. The box inched open, slowly, before Bokuto’s hands slipped and his fingernails came away dirty for the trouble.

“Akaashi! I can’t--”

“ _Don’t._ ”

It wasn’t the order that had Bokuto glancing up in surprise, but the sudden breathlessness to Akaashi’s short reply. He stood there, staring at the box in Bokuto’s hands and breathing hard through his nose as though he had ran. It surprised him. Maybe he had; all he remembered was the sound of the glass shattering, prickling at his feet as furled, dry blossoms rolled at his feet.

“Akaashi?” Bokuto asked, grip on the box tightening.

“Don’t open it,” Akaashi said. His voice was strained, like a string suddenly pulled taut. “Don’t--”

“Why not?”

The threat in the room was palpable, thick and looming: Akaashi felt tired, so tired. There was a precipice here, one that he had forgotten that he stood on, walked along, and now he was tilting over the edge. He forced the wrinkle of worry on his forehead to smooth out into blankness. “If you trust me, Bokuto-san,” he said, in a quiet voice. “Don’t open that box. Burn it.”

Bokuto stared at Akaashi, the pause between them held on bated breath. The seconds stretched out into minutes. Crouched on the floor, he watched Akaashi and Akaashi watched him, the three tatami mats that separated them feeling like an ocean of distance.

Then he dug his fingernails into the gap, and opened the box.

Akaashi closed his eyes.

 

 

 

Of all the people he expected to come after him, Kuroo was not one of them.

Akaashi noticed the presence in his hotel room long before he fully rose to consciousness. His body was stiff, muscles coiled with tension for what he assumed would be an upcoming fight.

Escaping Kuroo would be no easy feat.

“Awake?” Kuroo asked, and Akaashi opened his eyes.

“Enough,” he said, and sprung into action.

One hard jerk was all it took to rip the blanket away from his bed, and draw it through the air. Whether it landed on Kuroo or not was irrelevant; Akaashi seized the momentary shield to dig his fingers under his pillow, searching for his karambit. He flicked it open, locked his fingers around the grip and twisted to centre his weight--

“Fast,” Kuroo said, and his breath was too warm and altogether too close.

A hand closed around his fist, and dragged his arm behind his back. It was a hard wrench, one that sent pain skidding up his spine as his shoulder joint strained under the pressure. A swift kick to his legs had them collapsing under him, and Akaashi fell onto the bed, pinned down by a knee that settle into the small of his back, and the hand holding his arm immobile.

“If you’re here to dispose of me,” Akaashi said, panting. “Then do--”

“Akaashi Keiji,” Kuroo interrupted. It was impossible to see his expression from the angle he held Akaashi at, but when he spoke his voice was smooth and even. “From the fifth division of the Special Unit. Assigned to the Fukurodani group in the late spring of 2011, to infiltrate and monitor prior to the handover--”

Akaashi froze. His heart was beating too fast, a rabbit-anxious thud against his ribcage. Kuroo knew, he _knew_ , how long had he known?

“It wasn’t hard to figure out, given the right sources,” Kuroo said. “And when I say the right sources--”

 

 

\---

 

 

“Did you ever wonder,” Kuroo asked. “How I knew?”

Akaashi glanced at him.

They were sorting through police reports, sourced from Kenma’s laptop over a night of fluid typing, hunched over his laptop. The venture was an attempt to branch out, on the hopes that the Special Unit had perhaps caught wind of Akaashi’s betrayal, and sought to close the matter themselves. He doesn’t like to think about the consequences for _him_ should that be the case, but if anything, the stack of papers Kenma produced looked more promising than foreboding.

“I was curious, yes,” Akaashi replied. He scanned through several more lines of text, ignoring the way his vision blurred at the edges. “Though I assume Bokuto told you what was on those papers he found.”

“Half right,” Kuroo agreed. “Nothing about me strikes you as familiar?”

“I’ve known you for five years, Kuroo-san,” Akaashi said. He wrenched his gaze away from the pages, to level Kuroo with a pointed look. “Five years is a--”

Kuroo had moved back a few paces. The dim light in the room was provided solely through the effort of a naked lightbulb, hanging precariously on a cord. A halogen light, casting a golden glow over Kuroo’s hair.

"You," Akaashi said. His mouth was dry. "I know you--"

Kuroo's smile was thin. "Of course you do. Everyone did."

Four years ago, a member of the Special Unit defected. It was a rumour amongst the outer circles, and confirmation of the fact was confined only to those who needed to know. Operatives who might encounter them, should they be sent out onto the field.

Akaashi remembered the photograph they had shown him--that grayscale image, blurred by careless flecks of water that had landed on the surface. Kuroo had looked different then, dark hair bleached blond and messy, shorn too short to hide the dark bruise on his forehead. His nose had the telltale crookedness of a recent break, but more telling was the cold, flat sheen to his eyes, boring into the camera lens. Too many hard decisions, made too many times.

That Kuroo was a mere ghost of the one standing before him now, with another faint smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Kuroo,” Akaashi said. His mind’s eye flickered back, and paused like a static film reel. “Kuroo Tetsurou. From the ninth division.”

 _MIA_ had been stamped across the file, in dark blue ink.

“Very nice, Akaashi-kun,” Kuroo said. “Well done.”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi started. The new information was like a dawn rising, shedding new light into the corners and dark spaces that his gaze used to slide over. “Did--does he know?”

Kuroo looked at him with something like pity in his eyes. It wasn’t unkind, but Akaashi’s skin shivered warm all the same. Here, was that same feeling of familiarity, of memories that lingered beneath the surface; they weren’t _his_ but in another time, they could have been. He heard an echo through his mind,  _in many respects, his case is probably similar to yours_ , and wondered if it were pity or resonance reflecting in that gaze.

Once, in the past, he had almost asked Kuroo, _what would you know about what makes Bokuto happy?_

He thinks he could guess the answer to that now.

“Of course he knows,” Kuroo said, with a patient smile. “Who do you think convinced me to leave?”

 

 

\---

 

 

At the best of times, Sensoji temple was quiet and peaceful, with passersby lingering only for a few moments to light incense and clasp their hands together in prayer. But those moments were rare, and for the most part, Sensoji temple was a busy centre of activity. All along the walkway up to the main temple were stalls--merchants selling charms, lucky key rings, and other cultural paraphernalia up from the gates near the road to just before the inner temple grounds. Unlike the rush of Sanja matsuri, this was just business as usual, drawing tourists and locals alike who milled around and slowly browsed the items on sale.

Akaashi came, not like a worshipper to a temple, because this was not his temple. His temple was a crumbling altar, home of a displaced god.

“Did you think I’d be mad?” came Bokuto’s voice.

When Akaashi looked up, he found Bokuto standing before him, arms crossed and head cocked. It was strange, seeing him in casual clothing; a pair of slacks, a shirt with a circular motif on it that looked as if it had been snatched from Konoha’s closet. His hair hung loose around his face. A fitting disguise, for someone who was otherwise altogether too much.

Akaashi searched that expression, and found calm curiosity instead of anger.

“Come on,” Bokuto said, and gestured for Akaashi to stand up.

Bokuto led him through the temple stalls, pausing to examine the trinkets that caught his curiosity. Akaashi found himself watching Bokuto; the way he was bright even outside of his title, outside of _kumicho_ of Fukurodani. He wondered if he missed something, and decided it didn’t quite matter.

When Bokuto returned to him, he tugged at Akaashi’s hand. Palm-up, fingers open and receiving.

Something dropped into his hand. Bokuto drew back.

An omamori sat on his palm, and Akaashi closed his fingers over it.

It was simple, a dark black, edged with gold at the seams; the glossy satin rubbed smooth against his skin, and Akaashi examined it closer.

A long-life charm; peace and prosperity.

“With me,” Bokuto added, with a note of conviction that sang louder than the buzz of the temple. He rocked on the balls of his feet, and reached out to touch Akaashi’s hand briefly. “Because you chose me.”

Akaashi came, searching for absolution, and left with hope clutched in his hand.

 

 

\---

 

 

The steel door swung open with a _clang_ , and Akaashi jumped, wound too tight with tension to hide his reaction.

“There’s no information here,” Kenma interrupted. He set down another stack of sheets onto the wooden table, beside his sleeping laptop. “It’s not the Special Unit.”

“It can’t have been a group,” Akaashi replied. He still felt dazed by the revelation, but tucked it away for now. He could ask questions later. “Not in Tokyo--”

“Unless they're especially brazen,” Kuroo said. Attention swivelled to him, and he raised his hand, ticking off his fingers one by one. “Brazen. Arrogant. Impulsive. Resorts to underhanded methods.”

That's enough to pique Kenma’s curiosity, it seems. “Who did you contact?” he asked.

Kuroo leaned back and shrugged. “A few names,” he said. Then reconsidered, “Just one, actually.”

 

 

\---

 

 

The Nohebi headquarters were large--a sprawling complex on the outskirts of Edogawa ward.

Gravel crunched underfoot as Kuroo and Akaashi entered through the gates, walking up to the main building. Their escort greeted them with a faint nod at Kuroo, and the twist of unease in Akaashi’s stomach tightened. Walking into a veritable snake’s nest was never high on his list of priorities, but neither was losing Bokuto--now look where he was.

“Hiroo,” Kuroo said, in acknowledgement.

Hiroo nodded again, but did not reply. Instead, he led them through the corridors, with closed doors on either side. The walls were thick in this building, pulling all of the sound out of the room beyond the soft footfalls of their own steps.

The room they were ushered into was simple; there were several cushions tucked neatly under a solitary tabletop, littered with herb cuttings, and a small, sunken hearth glowed in the centre. There, seated at the far end of the table, was Daishou. He glanced up, narrowed eyes widening slightly at the sight of them.

And there--Akaashi’s heart rose--was Bokuto, sitting to the side in seiza with his hands cupped around a cup of tea.

A cup of tea. Akaashi schooled his surprise, even when Bokuto visibly brightened.

Kuroo rapidly cut to the quick. “What do you want in exchange for Bokuto?” he asked, voice firm. If he was disturbed by the picture in front of him, he didn’t remark on it. His expression was set, shoulders relaxed and loose.

Daishou snorted. “I didn’t want Bokuto. I wanted _you,_ ” he said, rolling his eyes. “We have unfinished business, Kuroo.”

There was silence. Akaashi fought the urge to glance at Kuroo, seeking some kind of confirmation for the request. He wasn’t aware of any links between Nekoma and Nohebi, and Kuroo had mentioned nothing to him. Surprisingly. Whether his unease was justified, was difficult to tell.

Kuroo, on the other hand, looked considering.

“I’m fine,” Bokuto insisted. Then he jerked his thumb at Daishou, and said to Kuroo, “Your friend is a poisonous little snake! I don’t like this methods.”

The tension eased out from Akaashi. If Bokuto was indignant, then it’s unlikely that he came across any harm. He seemed more irritated by the entire situation than unduly distressed, and Akaashi fought down the urge to reach out and examine Bokuto’s well being for himself.

Kuroo was wholly focused on Daishou. “In that case, you have my attention now,” he said. He raised an eyebrow. “I had guessed, at the end. Though really, all of this to gain my attention?”

Daishou crossed his arms. His narrowed eyes were considering. “You’re a difficult man to track down, when you don’t want to be found. I knew you’d been watching to see which side Fukurodani would fall on to. Once I found the leverage,” he said, lightly, “It seemed the easiest course of action.”

On the contrary, Akaashi thought, at least for them, Kuroo kept insisting on popping up in the most inopportune places. Or perhaps. There were snippets that Akaashi could recall, brief snatches of conversation--

The feud between Itachiyama and Nohebi.

The developing alliance between Fukurodani and Nekoma.

“Kuroo,” Bokuto announced, clearly uninterested by the turn in events. He set his cup of tea down on the table. “I’m going home. Daishou-chan, I look forward to our alliance.”

Bokuto had been busy, Akaashi realised, as he hastily bowed and hurried after Bokuto, who was already several feet away. Something was swelling in his chest; disbelief, or sheer astoundment. Perhaps affection, if he were feeling generous: he was distantly aware that Bokuto had just disengaged from a negotiation with no bloodshed.

Was a mere kidnapping a marked improvement? He wasn’t sure. Two, if one included his own. Akaashi glanced back, one last time, and just before Hiroo closed the door, he caught a quick smile from Kuroo.

Then Bokuto called, “Hurry up, Akaashi! Komiyan is waiting, isn’t he?”

And Akaashi followed after him.


End file.
